


By Way of the Heart and the Stars

by TheMostePotente



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:37:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMostePotente/pseuds/TheMostePotente
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy would follow Kirk anywhere if he asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Way of the Heart and the Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/gifts).



> Written for Inell in 2009.

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By Way of the Heart and the Stars

**

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:::::

"Gimme me a tall ship and a star to sail her by."

It's hard to mimic Jim's dramatics when you're lying on your back. Somehow, the effect is lost when you're lying on itchy grass and clothes (his, yours) and your pants are still tangled about your ankles.

"Shipshape and Bristol-style," he answers back a little too breathy. His lips are swollen and his face is flushed, and your heart leaps, because you'd go to the ends of the known (and unknown) galaxies with him. If he asked.

But you've been invited to teach Anatomy at Starfleet Academy, and it's a strategic move. Damn that Vulcan anyway, teaching you to think in terms of chess play. Problem being, the ache in your heart can't distinguish the difference between move and counter.

"What are we doing here, Jim?" you ask, and you just know he'll have some smartass bullshit answer in return. 

"Not moving s'what," he says with a dreamy groan, and he's serious. He'd lay here 'til morning if the automatic sprinklers didn't turn on at three a.m. Not that you mind, not when his hand's on your chest and his fingers flex (and unflex) across your sternum.

You wait about ten minutes before you speak again, afraid if you don't, Jim will be asleep, nose upturned and snoring as loud as a Tellurite. You nudge him none-too-gently, because it's your style and because there's still so much to say.

"You ever give that infernal fuzzball a name?" you ask, cursing your stupidity. You already know the answer.

His silence, of course, is his avowal.

The Tribble is Sulu's doing. An attempt at proving Jim has a heart under that Gorn-scale exterior. For a trained swordsman, Sulu's a softie. And a fucking optimist. There's zero chance Jim will personalize anything (or anyone) he can't form a solid relationship with. Funnily enough, he's named his damned bike Jessica and his fucking dick L.J. Christ, he's even named the fucking chair Prometheus. 

His eyes are closed now, and you can't even feel the rush of breath on your neck. There's a joke here somewhere, your trademark line; only the words need a bit of rearranging. Quietly, you reach over and into your medbag, pulling out the antique stethoscope he bought you as divorce finalization present. 

You don't need this, though, to read Jim's heart. You know the ins and outs of this muscle; you've mapped it with your ear, your fingertips, and that sharp staccato of an explorer is unmistakably, undeniably James Tiberius Kirk's. Still, you want to wake his ass with that cold, metal chestpiece. 

He cocks open an eye, arching a brow that would rival Spock's 'Eyebrow of Doom' before he smiles lazily and says, "If I'm dying, I want a cheeseburger and chili fries from Maxie's first." He starts to rise.

Sit down, you asshole, you think. And now it's you that doesn't want to leave, but you can't find your voice. He starts to dress and you sit helpless, mentally insisting he stay. But this is Jim, and that's like telling water not to be wet. 

But then he offers you a hand up and says, "Come with me, Len." And that something in his eyes tells you his request means a fuck of a lot more than garbage burgers and greasy fries. He wiggles his fingers in a gesture of mock annoyance, and you take his hand. 

You fall a bit unsteadily into his arms at the force of his tug. You can smell the sweet cloaking scent of hair all riled up from sex, and he holds you there even after you've regained your footing. He's gorgeous, all Judas kiss and Lazarus heart, even if he's wearing his shirt backwards. For a moment, you think about Jocelyn and how she was your heart attack when things were good. Then you think about Jim and how he's become your flatline, the Iowan bastard. He coaxes you along just as the sprinkler system activates, and in fifteen minutes you'll be wet and toasting to God only knows what over strawberry milkshakes.

But you're coming with him, and he's going with you and Klingon painsticks couldn't change your mind.

-The End-


End file.
